Poem by Francis Beaumont

In Laudem Authoris

Like to the weake estate of a poore friend,
To whom sweet fortune hath bene euer slow,
VVhich dayly doth that happy howre attend,
VVhen his poore state may his affection shew:
So fares my loue, not able as the rest,
To chaunt thy prayses in a lofty vayne,
Yet my poore Muse doth vow to doe her best,
And wanting wings, shee'le tread an humble strayne.
I thought at first her homely steps to rayse,
And for some blazing Epithites to looke,
But then I fear'd, that by such wondrous prayse,
Some men would grow suspicious of thy booke:
     For hee that doth thy due deserts reherse,
Depriues that glory from thy worthy verse.

1. Ad Comitissam Rutlandiæ
2. To My Friend Mr. John Fletcher, upon His Faithful Sheperdess
3. Mr. Francis Beaumont's Letter to Ben Jonson
4. To the True Patroness of All Poetry, Calliope
5. A Funeral Elegy on the Death of the Lady Penelope Clifton

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